The Elder Scrolls: Turning of Circumstance
by JinxJenks
Summary: The Imperial Province has openly turned to the Daedra Prince Molag-Bal to assist them in taking over all of Tamriel, and the three remaining major factions are not pleased. Racial tension and idealistic clashes prevent these three superpowers from working together, but not everyone is satisfied with this disagreement. (I do not own The Elder Scrolls)
1. Namesake

2E 560, the ancient Nordic city of Windhelm…

The wind was calm, but its jowls still had the icy bite of a storm. Powdery snow piled in thin sheets all over the cobblestone walkways of Windhelm, and heavy footsteps left deep prints upon the blankets of silvery snow. People, mostly nords, walked through the gently falling curtains of snow and paid no heed when the flakes of white melted on contact with their skin. Next to stone buildings sat men and women dressed in sad assortments of torn rags, doing little to shelter their wearers from the cold, and the majority of them held their palms out as rain catchers to the grey sky hoping for some coin to funnel into their grasps. Once in a time a generous soul would give them a coin or two, but most citizens simply ignored the beggars and walked along on their way.

Guards wearing heavy leather padded armor stood at the corner of every street, watching the shadows for signs of danger. One such guard turned his head away from the sun light and pulled a flask from his chest plate, taking a swig before replacing it in his armor.

Another guard, one with curly brown hair and a short beard, began to make his rounds with his left hand on his scabbard and his right swinging like a pendulum as he walked. He passed one of his fellow guards and waved friendlily. Both of the men spoke with strong nord accents.

"Morning." He called.

"Good morning, Balov." The guard said back as Balov continued to walk through the city.

Balov soon came upon his least favorite part of the city; the slums. People sat around begging for coin and selling themselves and other illegal goods just to get their next warm meal. As this guard entered the narrow alley-like streets people dispersed, hoping not to be found guilty of anything. As the feeling of shallow loneliness began to sink in, Balov reached for the locket around his neck and held it tight in his brutish palms.

He wondered if his wife would have been proud of him; he wondered if their child would have pronounced aloud how proud he was of his father for protecting the weak and the innocent.

He then heard the sound of a baby crying; a harrowing sound that raked his ears, as well as turned the heads of the others in the slum. He dropped the locket back onto his chest and followed the noise into a back alley. The guard prepared his sword just in case and then turned the corner of the alley.

A pointy-eared Dark elf infant lied coddled in linen and furs on the ground beside a gutter drain. Its soft red eyes squinted as it cried out and tried to shake free of its covers with its dark grey-turquoise hands flailing around helplessly.

Balov sheathed his sword and looked around confused as others began to gather around, further hindering his chances of finding the guardian of the child. People leaned into one another's ears. They all knew what the other was saying, but as more of a formality they hid their racist opinions from anyone but their own friends. Balov soon realized that no one else was going to take up the child, so he bent down and lifted the baby boy from the ground. In a matter of seconds (With some help from Balov's soft shushing) the boy had fallen asleep in his arms.

Once more, Balov glanced around the alley.

"Does this child belong to anyone?"

No answer, only more whispers.

"Does anyone have room in their homes for another?" he asked, hopingly.

The wind began to pick back up and the baby boy shivered beneath his wrappings.

"As if I'd allow a grey-skin in my house." Said one Nord man as he shook his head and wandered out of the alley. The rest of the observers nodded their heads in agreement, and then began to leave. In just a few seconds it was only Balov and the child left in the alley. The sun rose over the walls of the buildings, and the orange light of the morn shone onto the coddled infant. The baby opened his eyes just a bit and the light stung at them, causing him to scrunch his face. Balov smiled and giggled to himself.

He took one last glance around and then looked back down at the infant as it yawned silently.

"You're a cute one aren't ya?" he asked rhetorically. "I don't know of any orphanages around here… so I guess you're coming home with me."

The child cooed and smiled as he tried to reach up and grab at Balov's face. Balov had to smile again. He had never held a child before, and he never thought he would after his pregnant wife had taken ill and passed to Sovngarde taking their unborn son with her. He then remembered what he was going to name his first-born.

"I think I'll call you…" The child reached to Balov's chest and grabbed at his locket, "Loghvar."

* * *

2E 566, a small homestead south of Windhelm…

"Loghvar!?" Balov yelled down the halls of his farm house. "Have you cleaned your room yet!? You still need to feed the animals!"

There was no response from the Dunmer child.

"Loghvar!?" he yelled once more. Still not a quip from his son. Balov angrily stomped down the hallway and opened every door he passed, looking for his child. He eventually came upon his father's old study and creaked open the wooden door.

Loghvar was sitting cross legged on the floor with a pile of books beside him. Balov crossed his arms and sighed. Loghvar's ears flared up from underneath his medium-length black hair as he heard his father behind him. Loghvar tried to hide the books from his father's view as he turned to face the nord man. The dark elf spoke in an undeniably Nordic accent.

"I'm sorry papa, I was just-

"You're not supposed to be in here." He said, referring to his father's study. The room had weapon racks full of old blades and bookshelves filled with dusty tomes from all over Tamriel. Rare animal pelts hung from the walls, splayed out.

"I know… I just-

"What books have you got there?" Balov said, "I never even knew you could read yet."

"They're just… journals…"

"Those aren't any journals I've ever seen. Were you looking for those?" he pointed over at the wooden desk, and piled atop it was a stack of his father's old memoirs. Loghvar swallowed hard.

"Uh…"

"Now what books do you actually have there?"

Loghvar didn't respond. Balov shook his head and walked over – pushing his son out of the way to see what he had been so interested in hiding from him.

Among the texts were many different books: _Aedra and Daedra, The Maomer of Pyandonea, One Staff Many Staves, Racial Motifs volumes two and four: The Dark elves and the Nords, Stendarr's Divine Spear, The Song of Pelinal, Alchemy Practicum, Heavy Armor Forging, Precepts of Stendarr, The Gift of Magnus_, and many other tomes, largely containing information on holy rituals and destruction magic as well as fighting techniques. Balov turned to look queerly at his son.

"Do you even understand this stuff?" he asked.

Loghvar nodded his head.

"What are…?" Balov caught his tongue, "Why are you in here? What do you hope to gain from reading these?"

There was a long silence, and then Loghvar looked up at his father with his scarlet eyes.

"I want to be an adventurer, like Grandpa!" He answered.

Balov took a few more moments of silence to let it all sink in. Perhaps it did run in the family, blood or not.

"You can read another time." Balov said as he picked up the books and began to place them back on their shelves. "For now you have chores to do."

"Yes, Papa." Loghvar obeyed and walked out of the room.

When Balov had finished placing the books where they belonged he turned and stared emptily at the weapons hung on the walls. Displayed prominently among them was a sword of Dunmer make. Its ebony colored blade was curved back and forth like the body of a serpent and its handle was adorned in the hide of some Morrowind creature. His father had gone so many places and acquired many a souvenir, but this sword was strangely separate from the rest of the collection, seemingly for no reason.

"I know Pa," he said to the blade, "I won't let him waste his life as a farm boy for all of his days."

He was about to leave the room, but something caught his eyes. Two sets of wooden swords and shields, for combat practice; the same sets that he and his father had used. Balov hesitated at first, but after some thought he grabbed the swords and shields and walked out of the room.

"Loghvar! Forget about the chores! I've got a better idea!" he hollered.

* * *

2E 574, Balov's Homestead…

Balov was sitting at the table in the center of the small house; its thatch roof creaked from the winter winds that the season had brought with it. Clutched in his hands were a few pieces of parchment with news from around the provinces transcribed on them. The deadly and virulent Knahaten Flu continues to spread unchecked through Tamriel consuming many lives. Worse still was the failed peace talks throughout the provinces, and it began to look as though war would begin once again.

But this new alliance with the Dunmer and the Argonians… it was fragile at best, but it was also akin to a starved and caged beast when set loose upon their enemies. Balov had fought alongside the Dunmer and Argonians just two years before at the battle against the Akaviri and their slaves. He had never thought that some wrinkly old spell-flingers and a few slithering scale-backs would ever be much in a battle; yet he had seldom seen such coordination and ferocity.

Perhaps the alliance would help to bolster his son's confidence in his true race, and bring awareness to the Elf-hate that had been spreading through Skyrim. Balov knew better than anyone that not all Dunmer were stuck-up arrogant snobs.

The door flew open and the wind certainly helped with that. Loghvar struggled to pull the door closed, but after he did he put a pile of groceries onto the table in front of his father and smiled. He was covered with flakes of snow.

"I got what you asked for, Pa."

"Thank you, Log." Balov said as he got out of his chair. Loghvar watched as his father walked over to where the training equipment was lying on the ground and grabbed a shield and wooden sword.

"Catch." Balov said as he hurled the equipment in Loghvar's direction. Loghvar caught it with minimal effort and held his shield at the ready.

"Are you sure you want to train in this weather?" Loghvar asked, scratching his head all the while.

"A bit of cold never hurt a true Nord." Balov said, "You are a true Nord, right?"

Loghvar barred his teeth and bashed his shield and his sword together pumped full of zeal.

"By Shor's Bones I am!"

They went outside and walked around to the back of the house, facing the brunt of the wind in full. Both of them made ready and raised their arms.

"You ready, boy?" Balov taunted.

"Bring it on, Old man!" Loghvar said with absolute confidence in himself. Balov chuckled.

"Time to see how far you've come."

Loghvar charged forward and slashed for his father's sword arm diagonally. Balov hit the wooden blade down with his and stabbed at his son. Loghvar raised his shield and hit Balov's sword, sending his arm bouncing back. He then used the time to slash up with his sword, narrowly missing Balov's chin as he dodged backwards. Balov shook his head to rid his beard and hair of the flakes of ice that had begun to pile up.

Lightning cracked the sky overhead.

Loghvar lunged forward again and stabbed for his father's gut. Balov blocked the stab with his sword and riposted, spearing for Loghvar's chest. Loghvar ducked down and raised his shield above his head. As he rose back to his feet he pushed his shield upwards as hard as he could, roaring a battle cry to the sky. The shield hit Balov's wooden sword with such force that the faux blade flew from his hands and landed no less than ten feet away.

As he looked down at his son, the wooden and blunted end of Loghvar's sword was pointed at his neck. The Dark elf boy was breathing heavily and his chest noticeably rose and fell with each breath. Loghvar drew a smile, thinning his lips.

"You're sloppy, father."

Balov let his hands fall to his sides, and he laughed. He laughed harder and heartier than he had ever laughed before. An adolescent Dark elf had disarmed him; he, with his years of experience adventuring and being a guardsman, and yet he had been outmanoeuvred by an adolescent Dunmer. The training had worked better than he could have ever imagined.

Balov slumped back onto his rump into the snow piling below them. He noticed that his breathing was far more labored than even his son's. He rested his arms on his knees and glanced up at his victorious opponent. Loghvar was still standing straight with his sword drawn, triumphantly.

"You…" Balov shook his head and laughed some more, "You are a Nord." Both of them went silent, and Loghvar's eyes became softer. He had waited for a long time for his father to say that sentence with such conviction and confidence. "Alright…" Balov said, "Let's feed the cattle and get inside before the storm picks up."

* * *

2E 576, the City of Windhelm…

Balov may no longer have been a guard, but he was still afforded the respect often shown to one. People waved happily at the retired farmer and other guardsmen nodded respectfully in his direction. The city had not changed an instance since the times when he had protected it with his own steel; save the Argonian and Dunmer diplomats and soldiers. All of them looked moderately uncomfortable. Their armor had no fur lining between the steel and them, only some fabric and chainmail – not the best armor if you're looking to fight off the stinging bite of Skyrim's northern winds. One such foreigner raised his scaled snout to the grey sky and then scoffed.

"I hope the ice does not fall from the clouds this day." He said as he flicked his tail through the nipping air. "Such a strange thing." He concluded. Balov shook his head and giggled. He thought this Argonian's naivety would have been almost adorable if it weren't so sad, and scaly.

Balov soon turned the corner toward the market place, and aside from all the wooden stalls set up in the market, there was also the black smithing shop. Beside the hot coals of the forge, hammering an anvil with his surprisingly hardy and powerful arms was Loghvar, without an apron and without a care shown for the ashes and sparks that flew off and hit his skin. His face was stern, like a dark elf's for once, and he was focused solely on the rough blade in his hands. He raised the blade to his eyes and, left wanting, returned it to the coals to heat the metal once more.

He looked up from the kiln and smiled brightly as he wiped the soot from his hands and face.

"Father!" He said. Some of the nearby nords gave him a strange look. "What are you doing here?"

"Wanted to see how your new job was going. Is my friend Kijor being a right prick?" He asked jokingly. Kijor, the local black smith – bald and ripe with age, but strong and sturdy – emerged from the blacksmith shop. He too had a thick Nordic accent; plenty of stress on his Hs.

"There's my shield-brother!" He said as he grabbed Balov's fur wrapped hands with his sooty ones, "Your _son_ is a savant with a hammer; caught right on to it he did." Balov didn't appreciate the way he said _son_.

"Yes, he'd been diving into my father's old collection of tomes. There are a few good manuals in there on Forge work."

"He even refused to wear an apron or gloves – If any nord had been working at that forge they would have been burnt down to the bone by now." He said with pride in his new worker.

Balov looked over to see his son hammering back on the steel without a care in the world.

"I don't see anyone but a Nord there, Kijor. A Nord's heart trapped in an Elf's body." He didn't ever glance back at Kijor; he simply kept on staring at the blistering hot coals, distorting the visage of his son.

Kijor nodded his head acceptingly and licked his chapped lips. "I heard from him that you two often train in your spare time." Kijor said as he crossed his burly arms, "Perhaps he should train with my daughter. A change can be good for keeping their reflexes sharp and provide a new challenge. What could go wrong?"

Balov looked back at his friend now and narrowed his eyes slightly. "That isn't a bad idea."

He had never truly used a real sword before, held them, but had never used them against another person. Loghvar could feel his father's and his friend's eyes watching him as he faced a tall red headed nord woman in the backyard of the blacksmithing shop. Both of them adorned some old iron armor from the back room of the shop, and neither of them had expected the weight to hit them so hard.

"We want a fair fight; no talking trash around your elders, and no hitting each other where there is no armor." Kijor said as he raised his hand. His hand came to rest hovering high above his head. "Fight!" he declared as he brought his hand down onto the balcony railing, slapping it with his palm down.

Loghvar and his opponent both began running at each other shouting all the while as their armor shifted back and forth loosely on their young and still growing bodies. Their armor was dinged and dirty, but their slightly blunted blades were polished to the point where light from the sun flashed around the yard when their weapons flailed around as they ran.

They immediately locked their blades against each other and held their shields to the side; it instantly became a duel of endurance solely relying on the strength of their sword arms. They went for at least a third of a minute pushing back and forth, grunting and breathing through their clenched teeth, spraying clouds of saliva into the air. When he realized that this endeavour was leading nowhere Loghvar released his blade from hers and rolled to the side, just as the young woman brought her blade down beside him, cutting a swathe into the snow and grass.

Loghvar shot up from his feet and smashed the blunt of his blade against his opponent's shield-arm side shoulder. She winced and smacked his arm away with her shield before recoiling back to a safe distance. She looked at her arm and lifted the padding and steel plates to inspect the blow. A large bruise had already appeared.

"Damn it!" She swore. Suddenly, an aura began to glow, haloing around her wound, and sparkling yellow with pure magical energy. A tether of magical light connected her and Loghvar, emanating from his shield hand. As he cut the cord of energy, she once more looked down at the wound. There was no trace of the bruise that was once there.

Balov and Kijor were surprised, impressed, and at the same time drawn towards a state of caution. She was facing more than a warrior now, she was facing a mage.

"I won't use my magic against you, if that's what you're worried about." He said to the woman, "I just want to make this fight last."

The girl smiled at him. Her voice was, unsurprisingly, accented similarly to his own.

"I don't take charity!" She charged at him and the two of them collided in a clash of steel and prideful passion.

After a few good minutes of nonstop sparring, Loghvar came out on top, even if just barely. The girl laid on her back on the snow coated now with dirt and dead grass that had been kicked up in the battle. Loghvar roared and then stabbed his sword into the ground, resting upon its guard as he drew in breath.

"Good fight…" The woman said, "But I won't go… so easy on you… next time." She claimed as she collapsed once more into breathlessness.

"Never… asked you… to." Loghvar said. Off to the side their elders were astonished at how long they had lasted out against each other.

"Good try, Anea, but is seems that the boy has bested you." Kijor said to his daughter, Anea. Anea got to her feet, sluggishly, and looked at her father.

"I was going easy on him!" she claimed once more.

"Yes, yes. That excuse is as old as Alduin's scaly balls. Now go clean yourself up!"

Anea obeyed her father, but smiled amusingly back at Loghvar as she closed the wooden doors behind her. Loghvar finished catching his breath and handed his equipment over to the Blacksmith after stripping back down to his clothes.

"Thank you for letting me use these." He said as he bowed and his greasy, sweat caked hair draped downward.

"No gratitude required, apprentice. Keep up the sword-play and keep your hammering arm tempered; you'll be a journeyman in no time." Kijor said with a smile. Loghvar smiled back. Balov chuckled and grabbed his boy by the shoulder.

"C'mon, let's go home for the day." Balov said as they began to walk away, exiting out the gate in the back yard of Kijor's home.

"See you tomorrow, Kijor!" Said Loghvar as he waved to his employer. The man waved back and went back into the house. The two of them had barely made it down the alley when Balov tapped his son on the shoulder.

"Where, and when, did you learn a restoration spell?" he asked curiously. He was more frustrated with the fact that his son had not told him beforehand than with anything else.

"Grandpa's old books had a few useful spells in them. They were simple enough after I learned the basics of magic. I can thank his books for that too."

Balov scoffed and shook his head, still smiling.

"I always knew you were destined for greater things, and this affirms that."

There was silence after that sentence was spoken, a silence that lasted most of the walk back to their farm. When the homestead was in view Balov grabbed his son's shoulder once more and stopped him.

"I want to give you something when we get inside."

"What?"

"Just follow me to the study."

Balov led his son into his father's old study, left mostly undisturbed over the years except for the tomes that drew Loghvar's interest. Loghvar grew confused when his father simply stood there, unmoving and contemplating, his eyes fixed upon the Dunmeri blade.

"Why are we here?"

"It's time that I gave you something. Something that I assume my father would have wanted me to give to you." Balov said as he approached the weapon racks. Still sitting alone in the center of an empty rack, was the Dunmer sword, coated in the dust of many years, but otherwise perfectly displayed in a shrine-like fashion. Balov grabbed the Blade's twisted scabbard and shook it loose from the rigid and aged wooden frame of the weapon rack.

Loghvar watched in awe as his father swept around and let the ancient dust shake free from the weapon. He silently passed it with both hands facing upwards to his son. Loghvar grasped the sword daintily and put it at his side. Dramatically, he pulled the wickedly dark metal blade from its sheath and watched in amazement as the shiny black metal crackled with sparks of magical electricity. The sound was like many birds chirping, or a sheet of glass shattering over and over, little by little, until the enchantment calmed down, so to speak, and the blade was completely removed from its covering.

"It's amazing… I've never seen anything like it."

"It is a Dark Elf weapon, and I think – in some fateful way – you were meant to have it." Balov said. Loghvar sheathed the weapon and tied the scabbard to his belt.

"But, why would I need a sword? Things are so peaceful around here." He said naively. Balov sighed and shook his head.

"War is coming, Lad. I want you to be ready for that."

"I am ready!" Loghvar said as he clenched his fists, "Who is it? Who wants to test the mettle of Skyrim's sons?"

"It's not that simple. Negotiations with the other provinces have been less than successful, and I can feel an angry wind blowing. I know that by the end of the next few years, you will taste battle."

"I'll be ready for them." Loghvar said, pounding his fist on his chest.

"No." Balov disagreed, "You need to train more." Balov pushed his son to the side and approached the old desk in the study. He pulled the drawers forward, displaying piles of scrolls and even more tomes. "Read over my father's old things. He was a Templar – a knight of sorts, good with magic – and I think you could learn to wield that same power."

"Do you really think I can, Pa?" Loghvar asked.

Balov thought it over for a quick moment. He had always said that he wouldn't keep Loghvar on the farm forever. Maybe this was his chance to see the world, and even help people. It was just what his father would have wanted. He looked down at his square necklace locket and sighed.

"Of course you can. I've seldom seen such a capable youth."

Loghvar smiled excitedly as he stepped forward and grabbed a scroll.

"I'd better get started then." He said.


	2. The Soul Burst

2E 578, Kijor's Blacksmithing shop…

As he hammered the steel slab against the weatherworn anvil Loghvar put his best arm into every blow he dealt the hot metal. He had been working at the blacksmith for two years, and he was known well by the guardsmen and even the nobles. He silently praised the Divines for putting him in a culture where a good smith was prized like a wise woman of a tribe may be; except instead of insight his knowledge was of more physical and deadly intent. When he did look up from his attention consuming tasks he often noticed foreign dunmer emissaries and guardsmen watching him through a veil of scrutiny, their blood red eyes cutting at him. For these reasons he never often looked up from these tasks, instead focusing his eyes on his worn and cracked hands and the metal of the anvil.

He had taken his father's advice and dived deeper into the old knowledge of his forebears. Hidden in these tomes were many interesting subjects: Holy magic that was hard to categorize into a single school of the Arcane, notes on battle-stances and then even some on Military strategy – some of his Grandfather's writing and some from more widely spread sources – not to even mention the numerous books filled with information on enchanting and smithing. So many texts, and he nearly memorized them all. And then what did a curious little dark elf have left in the library when he was done with the instructional texts?

Even more varied and abundant was his grandfather's collection of history and lore-based books providing invaluable, and expansive, compendiums of information on the religions and customs of numerous other cultures. He quickly brushed up on some of his Nordic history, and then immediately went on to texts on the Dunmer and their beliefs. Many things confused him about their culture, most notably the three living gods of the Tribunal: Almalexia, Sotha Sil, and Vivec. Vivec caught his eye right away; a Warrior-Poet god they called him. Loghvar supposed a Warrior-Poet was similar to a bard or something of the likes and that interested him.

Coincidentally Loghvar had found his grandfather's old eight-string Lute later that same day. He had a lot of practise to do before he was passable as a bard, but his fingers were still fast enough to play the calmest of tunes.

He was so caught up in his repetitive hammering, heating, and dunking, as well as his day dreaming, that he never noticed a Nord man with a medium length light brown beard and a shaven head watching him. As Loghvar looked up to catch the man's gaze, Loghvar stared back. The man, with a scar on his left cheek, almost appeared to be smiling. Loghvar remarked first.

"Can I help you, mate?"

"Actually, I've heard you're a pretty good smith." The man said as he leaned forward crossing his arms against the half wall to the side of the forge. "You are Loghvar, aren't you?"

"Aye." Loghvar answered. "But it's a wee bit rude to be askin' my name, when you haven't ev'n introduced yourself yet." His accent had not at all weakened with time; if anything his nord had mixed with the accents of the foreigners. He slightly rolled his 'r's with a trill-like quality and clipped some of his words down, allowing him to speak much faster. It caught people's attentions, and his already high-baritone voice made a point of helping with that. Maybe that was why Kijor had him deal with most of the customers?

The nord man laughed.

"Hjoun. Hjoun is my name." he answered. He soon changed the subject back to Loghvar as he looked the dark elf up and down. "Well, you're certainly not a foreigner, are ye?"

"Wha'd you want?"

"I wanted some conversation." A small squad of sea weary soldiers marched by and brushed civilians to the side as they made their way to the keep. "It doesn't look like they're up for it." Hjoun concluded. Loghvar continued hammering.

"I see yer armor, sir. I'm not dumb." He said confidently, "I'm not interested in joining the military; I have lots of work to do at home. An' it keeps me happy." He began to hammer the metal even harder. "Someday, maybe, but not today."

Hjoun sighed and pushed off of the half wall.

"Just remember my name in case you change your mind." He never glanced back; he just accepted his loss and continued on his way.

"Not today…" Loghvar whispered to himself as he turned his attention back to the anvil.

* * *

"You summoned me, Mannimarco?" said a dark robed High Elf man as he entered his master's chambers. Mannimarco, an Altmer himself, wore an elaborate set of armored robes dark as night and a silver jeweled circlet about his head. On Mannimarco's face was a smile etched above his chin with a wicked curl to it, a twisted smile, and a smile he seemed not keen to be getting rid of.

"Haenalion, I did." He answered. "You know that I am going on my "Quest" soon, yes?"

"For the Amulet of Kings?"

"Yes."

"Of course I know, Master."

"Well now there is more that you need to know." Mannimarco began to slowly pace back and forth in front of his servant. "I will be gone for a few days and once we have the amulet I will be gone for longer. While I am away I need you and my other retainers to be preparing for our Lord's arrival."

Haenalion kneeled to his master.

"We will do his will, Master."

"Good; you'd better." Mannimarco said harshly as he strutted out of the room, staff in hand. "Failure will not be tolerated." He said as the doors slammed behind him. Haenalion rose back to his feet and rolled his shoulders to loosen them up, clearly annoyed by his master's superior demeanor.

"Truly one of the more insufferable master's I've had to endure." He quipped to himself.

* * *

Windhelm was very much a port city now that so many men and women had to move through, too, and from it; reasons varied, but they almost always involved the comings of inevitable war. Many people wished that it wouldn't happen, and the majority of Skyrim's population seemed to be in denial from what Loghvar had seen. Also in his experience, there were only two types of people who believed that war was inevitable:

The working man,

And the Ruling man.

The High king seemed to be sure of it, and he had mustered his troops at the borders of the province months, if not already a year, before, long before the talk of war even seemed relevant.

Back in Kijor's shop Anea was helping around the forge as well as dealing with crowd control when too many people crowded into their shop. The few people who did believe that war was coming wished to be prepared obviously. Loghvar hammered viciously beside the forge like he had read in his books, like he had read the ancient nords did, bringing the hammer far above their heads before every strike.

Some of the men waiting in line for their steel watched and nodded their heads in critique of his art. They were impressed; he could hear their every whisper as they complemented him on his skills, and then dashed those same compliments against the ground by insulting his native race. The dunmer were even crueler, mocking him for the way he was raised and not even bothering to raise their noses to his work. He was lesser-born than them, a different rung on the ladder, far lower than theirs, but it was a sturdier, far more resistant, and seasoned stair, a rung that had been stepped on its entire life; he had grown because of their blood red stare.

He knew it was so easy to simply drop his steel, tighten the grip on his hammer, and then walk over and bash their skulls in. It would have been easier than listening to them snicker coyly as if it was acceptable; because it was to them. But he stayed his burnt and cracked hands, and continued forging for the people who may or may not have appreciated his efforts.

This particular day saw much business for the Smith, and members of all three of the allied races were lined up at the door. The warriors and sailors watched as he hammered his steel at the forge in front of the building, and they were clearly very impatient.

"What did you just say?" Loghvar heard one of the Dark elf men say. For the meantime he continued his forging as the confrontation continued on beside him.

A brutish looking Nord man turned around and snorted in the Mer's face.

"I called you a Gray-skin! Dya' have a prob'em?"

The others in the line backed away as the two men grew closer.

"My problem is nothing, and no one, but you, Frost-ass!"

The Nord man threw down his furred iron gauntlets and cracked his knuckles.

"Don't put you're puny lil' knife d'wn," The Nord said, pointing to the elf's dagger, "I'll be't you either way."

"Bring it then, Lard-gut!" The elf said as he splayed his Dagger.

Everyone glanced over at Loghvar as he approached the scene and drew his own crooked blade from its home at his waist. He spoke with a thundering and commanding voice and the look on his face said clearly that he had had enough.

"Both of ya best shove off from our shop before both of your asses are on the snow." Loghvar said as he raised the blade crackling with electricity. No one moved. "Ya' think I'm jokin' with ye?"

The elf customer furrowed his brow and bit his lip.

"We'll see about that you insolent little N'wah!"

The elf never got far with his dagger; Loghvar's downward sweep was so strong and unexpectedly fast that the blade was knocked clean from the man's hand. Before the dagger had even settled on the ground Loghvar swung his blade back up and left a mark all the way up the elf's cuirass. The elf stumbled back and took in a deep breath.

"Next time…" Loghvar said through grinding teeth, "I'll take yer god damned head." He looked over at the nord and raised his blade to point it at his face. The man flinched back. "Don't think I'd forget about you. Get both a' yer milk-drinkin' asses out of my face, and come back when ye're not so damned pissy."

The two men fled the scene soon after and Loghvar, still fuming, returned to his work as if not a thing had gone wrong. Hjoun watched from a nearby alley, smiling while Loghvar continued working.

"Not today?" Hjoun questioned rhetorically to himself.

* * *

2E, 579, the Imperial City…

The group known far and wide as The Five Companions grouped around the giant brazier at the center of the Temple of the One. Lyris Titanborn – a half-giant, half-nord – watched as her emperor, Varen Aquilarious, approached the brazier and held in front of him the legendary Amulet of Kings.

The jeweled center of the amulet shone with an ancient magic.

Abnur Tharn and Sai Sahan looked on from the side of the room, waiting for the ceremony to be completed. Mannimarco bit his lip to keep from laughing as Varen began the ritual.

"This had better work Mannimarco…" The emperor warned.

* * *

Loghvar was working hard like usual at the black smithing shop and Anea was currently helping him carry some firewood to the back of the building from the local mill. He had no troubles getting there – barely even breaking a sweat. His sword in its sheathe swung lightly back and forth as he walked. Loghvar went to kick open the back gate as Anea followed from behind him, but something stopped him.

He simply stopped walking, blocking the way for Anea. The nord woman looked over his shoulder with a cocked brow.

"You okay?" she asked worriedly.

Loghvar began to shiver like he had never before. His teeth chattered wildly and uncomfortably.

"I… f-f-feel… cold…"

The afternoon sky darkened without warning and Loghvar dropped the logs from his hands, no longer able to support the weight of the wood. His knees quickly buckled and he fell to the ground, holding his head and moaning loudly.

Anea dropped her own pile and rushed over.

"What by Shor is going on!?" she asked.

In the distance she could hear the screaming and groaning of others.

"S-s-something is d-d-draining my magicka…" Loghvar said as he began to cough violently. "I need you to- *Cough* -I need you t-t-to find me a- *Cough* -m-m-magicka potion…"

"Right!" Anea said before running off to the market around the corner of the building. At the square there was a large group of onlookers watching as a man in blue robes contorted on the ground.

"The domination of the mortal races is certain! Bow to your dark master!" he screamed prolifically again and again, mumbling to himself in between each reciting of the words. He rolled around and around on the ground as he clawed at his own face.

Anea ran over to the potion shop and burst through the doors. A pair of small Magicka potions was sitting on the counter in front of the merchant in charge of the shop. Anea threw a bag of coins from her belt onto the counter and snatched the glass vials.

"Keep the change!" she hollered as she rushed back out the door and into the city. The nord woman's red hair flailed in the wind as she sprinted back toward her friend. When she returned to Loghvar the dark elf was unconscious and his eyes were rolled back in his head. Gasping at the horrific look on his face, Anea pulled the cork from one of the vials and shoved the tube into Loghvar's mouth, pouring the blue liquid down his throat. Loghvar's eyes closed completely and then he swallowed.

Anea fell onto her rump and sighed with relief as her heart began to slow its pace. Within a minute Loghvar had risen back to his bottom and sat with his head slumped forward.

"Oooh… my head…" he groaned.

"Will you be alright?" Anea questioned. Loghvar seemed to ignore his friend's concerns.

"I heard others screaming. What's going on?" Loghvar asked as he slowly got back onto his feet. He stepped over the fallen logs and rested against the fence as his breathing continued to be laborious. Anea was about to tell him what she had seen, before she was interrupted by a sound.

It was akin to distant lightning mixed with the sound of a structure collapsing, from the south. Loghvar raised his head and saw what had begun to form in the sky outside of the city. A giant metal ring warped in from nowhere, creating a swirling portal inside of the metal circle. From the tear in the sky shot out three anchors, landing and erupting the ground around it. Lightning and dark energy cracked and swirled around the ring as the wind began to pick up. The constellation of the serpent shone much more brightly in the sky than it ever had before.

"That…" Loghvar paused as he pushed off of the fence and put his hand on his sword. "That's not far from the farm…" and then he drew his blade.


End file.
